


One for the Road

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:03:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles Matheson has done a lot of bad things since the end of the world, this might be the one he can never forgive himself for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One for the Road

 

The uniform lies on the bed staring back at you. -  Bass/Miles

 

Miles had gotten used to the ever present taste of whiskey. The bite of it on his tongue that made the words easier to spit out, the hot burn in his gut that distracted him from the ache in his chest. He went to bed with a mouthful to drown his dreams; and grabbed the bottle first thing in the morning to wash away the ones that learnt to swim.

Today he hadn't anything to drink. Yet. He would later, sourmash courage in a shot glass, but right now all he wanted to taste was Bass. Salt sweat and gunpowder skin, steel oil bitter on his fingers, and mouth cold from the ice in his drink.

Bass leaned over the heavy mahogany monstrosity of a desk he'd looted from some museum, hands flexing around the intricately carved edges. His back was a pale span of hard muscle and unmarked skin, the sort of idiot who only had scars from running  into  fights .  Miles bit his shoulder, teeth and tongue working a bruise into the tight skin, and fucked him like it might be the last time. One hand scruffed the back of Bass' neck, fingers hooked over his collarbone, and the other was wrapped around Bass' cock. 

After all these years, he knew it as well as he knew his own. Knew how rough to grab it, where to squeeze, and where to drag calluses fingered in a slow caress. They had learned to jerk off together, sprawled sweaty and sun-lazy in the treehouse Bass' dad had built. There had been other women over the years - other men for Bass sometimes, and Miles was never  entirely sure how to settle his mind around that, but they always came back together eventually.

Who'd they even be if they didn't?

Miles scraped his thumb over the head of Bass' cock, come slick under his fingers, and Bass swore as he went down onto his elbows with a crack. The long line of his back stretched out, elegant in a way that Miles  needed  to remember.

His cock was aching with the need to come, tension twisting hot wires of want through his spine, as he buried himself in Bass. His balls slapped against the other man's ass, sweat and come and lube slicking his thighs.

Finally Bass swore ragged and bucked against Miles' hand, spilling come between his fingers in stick, eager strings. Miles slicked the mess up his stomach, hooking his arm over his hips, and hammered into him. He came ass deep in his best friend, the last family he had, and for a second he managed to forget everything else.

Bass finally laughed and pushed himself up off the desk, twisting around to drag Miles' into a kiss. His fingers caught in the hair that gotten a bit long, tugging it teasingly. 

'Wasn't expecting that,' he said, breaking the kiss finally. 'You and Nora...?'

Miles' one virtue was that he didn't fuck around behind people's backs. Except when he did. Sometimes he wondered why  he  was meant to be the sane one, the safe one. Why he even cared. Not willing to go into it now, he shook his head and shoved a hand through his hair. It slicked back from his face, reminding him to be the General. 

'She's out of the city,' he said. It was the truth. Nora was two towns over, fast horses and good guns waiting with her. 'I'm just getting a bit tired of the 'more in sadness than anger' looks, you know?'

That was truth too. He'd thought he loved Nora - maybe he had, maybe he did - but she' deepen the one to sow the seeds of  this  and he'd never forgive her for that. Miles knew himself well enough to be sure of that.

Bass shrugged and tidied himself up, buckles and buttons slotted back into place. His hair wasn't tidy. It never was. Miles felt a pang of sentiment so strong that he wondered, for a second, if he was going to have a heart attack.

But then he had never been that lucky.

Excusing himself with an awkward excuse about tracking down Jim, Miles left. He went back to his quarters and sat at his desk, drinking his way through the whiskey Baker had given him for Christmas. It tasted like ash and cinnamon, burning his tongue like a punishment, and he wondered bleakly if he had sent the genial lummox away because he thought he would be loyal to Bass...or because he thought Baker could have talked him out of this.

The last dreg of gritty whiskey spilled down his throat, leaving him dully disappointed that he'd not gone with it. One more day to put if off. Instead he pushed himself up from the chair and walked of to the bed. His uniform lay there, like a corpse in state. The buttons were polished and ruler straight creases ironed in. He had even had the hems darned and his boots polished.

It was the last time he was going to wear the uniform, it seemed only fair that he wear it well.

Miles got dressed slowly - as if a last minute reprieve would drop from the sky - and went to kill his best friend.


End file.
